


Listen

by AngelicSentinel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang 2015, Eluvians, F/M, Gothic, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5314091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelicSentinel/pseuds/AngelicSentinel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This entire thing had felt like a dream. Fenris just wondered when he would wake. It seemed parts of him were not him; rather, that he was disconnected from everything, including the pain. It just didn't feel real. </p>
<p>For the DARBB 2015. Art by kurthawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Art by [Kurthawke](http://68.media.tumblr.com/56842d849df7ab527375fdfd17f24528/tumblr_nyln76g7fZ1qzhbnfo1_1280.png), who was so much fun to work with, and whose art was absolutely stunning!

Lightning streaked across the sky like a ghostly hand reaching out, lighting up against the black sky like the lyrium on his skin. Rain pelted down, turning the steep mountain path into a river of mud. The scraggly, ancient trees groaned with the weight of the wind, while the thunder roared its discontent into the night.

Few would dare brave the elements, yet still a cloaked figure stole through the rain, running up the sole road with a giant broadsword on his back. A red bolt of something shot in his direction, and he veered to the left as it harmlessly hit the rock facing on the right beside him. Still, he ran, not letting the crooked path deter him.

Another bright flash of lightning and the loud cry of a hawk sounded in the night, echoing off the edge of the world to the sea and sharp rocks below. 

The thick oiled cloak kept most of the rain off him, but the direction of the wind drove the rain straight into his bright green eyes, stinging them. The wind attempted to blow his hood off; another lightning strike hit a tree not ten feet away, and the figure started, causing the hood to blow off, exposing a bright shock of white hair that whipped in the wind.

Fenris glanced behind him for a moment; his pursuers were still a good distance away, but he wasn't taking any chances. He pulled the hood back over his head, clasping it tightly at the throat to prevent the wind from catching it again. He climbed ever higher up the mountain, sticking to the cliff facing so the water would not pull him beneath its depths as it crashed against the shore. 

The sea clawed at the ridge, taking soil and plant life with it. The cold icy fingers of the water grabbed at his ankle as he nearly slipped in the mud. The rough path forced the assailants to near single file behind him—his purpose for taking this unknown path in the storm in the dark. They were all fools. He grit his teeth, stood up, and moved on, searching for a path of escape.

He chanced another look behind him. It was too dark and rainy for him to see far, though the number of things pursuing seemed to increase every time he looked back. Fenris wasn't too sure why they were chasing him. He didn't think that anyone but slavers cared about what happened to other slavers, but this reaction told him otherwise.

Fenris was careless, and they ambushed him on the way to resupply in town. Now, he was the quarry to unknown predators. He snarled, curling his lip and baring his teeth. Fenris wasn't anyone's prey. If there were less of them, he would have already fought and killed them all. He was honest with himself; he could take a great many, but they were too much even for him with those numbers.

His eyes scanned the path at every flash of lightning, looking for another escape route. Fenris wasn't as familiar with this road, but he knew that most of the caverns here in this unknown place connected like Sundermount's. 

Fenris had to find another way around soon. The top of this path had nothing save for a giant wall of stone almost perfectly vertical.

Nothing that would be of any use to him. Still, he ran, his feet somehow managing to maintain traction in the slippery mud. To be heading somewhere was preferable to awaiting his death. Aveline, Hawke, or even Isabela would be helpful at this point to get them off his back.

Once, he had been used to fighting large numbers of enemies alone, or manipulating others into doing the work for him. Now, he was too used to working in a group, and that would be his downfall. 

When the lightning flashed again, however, he saw what he had been waiting for. It illuminated a shadow against the cliff face. A cave. He immediately veered right and ducked into the narrow passage.

Fenris couldn't stand to his full height, so he moved through the cavern in a slouch. It slowed him down only a little as he rushed down the path. The farther he made it inside, the more were the glow of the deep mushrooms seen. They were the only things illuminating the red sandstone, but they provided more than enough light for him to see. 

The cave widened enough for Fenris to stand just as he reached a crossroads. He hesitated only a moment, glancing at the strip of red cloth on his right wrist, before choosing the right path. He heard the shouting of people and the clanking of weaponry come ever closer. He doubled his pace, but still he could hear them behind him, coming ever closer, inexorable in their pursuit.

By this time, Fenris was winded, breathing hard enough it sounded like shouting to his ears, and he was running out of cavern. He burst through a small side tunnel into an enormous room, completely dark. 

The acoustics of the cave threw off his hearing. He could hear those following him, but he was unsure of which direction they would come. Taking a deep breath, trying to steady his breathing, he ignited his lyrium, illuminating the large cavern.

He saw no other side tunnel, only the way he came. Furious, he began pacing the walls, searching for another way out. One of them shouted, and he heard footsteps in the tunnel. He had to hurry. Picking up the pace, he searched for a way out until he tripped over a small object in the floor and fell against the wall.

Glancing down, he saw the object he had tripped over was a gleaming skull. By the size of the eye sockets and the shape of the head, it was elven. He picked it up, marveling at the heavy weight, and ran his finger over the smooth surface. It was made of gold, and the eyes gleamed red with rubies.

A chill ran up his spine. “Pah,” he said out loud, scoffing at himself, and threw the skull over his shoulder, not noticing or not caring that the eyes of the skull flashed red into the darkness.

Fenris was more interested in the way the wall gave way when he’d fallen against it. He’d loosened it from the roots. Even now, more dirt and debris fell, showing glimpses of another dimly lit room behind a narrow crack. He clenched his teeth, stepped away from the wall, shored up his shoulder, and ran into it, using the brief intangibility that his lyrium gave him to squeeze through the crack.

He made it through just in time as the dark cavernous room filled with voices and torchlight.

There was no going back that way. He didn't bother looking back. Instead, Fenris took in the new room ahead of him.

From a first glance, it looked like a tomb. Bones littered the ground, each pile lying by a dark rust-colored stain, like the corpses had rotted where they fell. The room was more than just a stone cavern or packed dirt held together by roots. It had been bricked, the stone carved in intricate detail, and gilded with gold. By the grand design and pointed arches, it was clearly elven. A statue of one of the elven gods stood to one side of the room. Fenris didn't know or care which one. Piles of gold littered the ground, dirty with age. The elven tomb had enough treasure to grant a poor man a fortune. Gems likewise were intermixed with the coins and bullion, emeralds and rubies and sapphires as blue as Hawke's eyes. Fenris blinked and shook his head. He didn't know where that last thought came from; he was not inclined to poesy. 

What eventually drew his eye, though, was the mural of the wolf on the wall. It was faded with time, but it had held up surprisingly well, gleaming where the rest of the tomb had faded, as if time itself had paused. Mosaic surrounded it in golden and earthy gold tones; perhaps some of it was even made of gold itself.

Ageless.

The wolf stood facing him, his stance proud, and as Fenris moved about the room, its eyes seemed to follow him. Its color was that of the blackest midnight. That, more than anything else in the room, unsettled him. It stood sentinel above a dark, sharply pointed arch with black glass that pulled at Fenris's memory.

Fenris turned to the far corner of the wall and saw scrolls rotted beyond in aging, sagging bookshelves. Nothing there interested him, so he turned to the last unexplored pathway.

Several rows of armor stood there, while swords, shields, and axes of every make lined the wall and sides. An armory then. Viewed all together, it was a testament to some ancient elven glory, no doubt. He scowled at the thought. Not so glorious now, were they? Forgotten, left alone in some forsaken tomb only slightly interesting for the fact that no one had plundered it.

He walked across to the middle of the room, reaching for his sword as soon as he felt the floor underneath him shift. A trapped floor tile! Immediately on guard, Fenris jumped out of the way and cast his eyes about for what had been released to the sound of ancient gears grinding. He paused, ready for anything.

A few long seconds passed.

Nothing.

The voices behind the wall sounded again, and there was some noise at the wall as they discovered the crack. Fenris ducked out of the line of sight, but it was too late. They had already seen him, and he heard the sound of rubble shifting as they cleared it away so they could make it through. Mist creeped through the floor of the room, and it grew cold.

Gritting his teeth, Fenris cast his eyes around at the room again, looking for an escape. So focused he was with his assailants making their way through the damaged wall, he had not noticed the telltale crackle of demon, barely managing to dodge when a rage demon sent a plume of fire in his direction. He dodged, but the fire seared his arm.

He loosed his sword from his back and screamed out a battle cry. The demons immediately flocked in his direction, small wraiths scratching at him while the rage demon attempted to set him alight. Fenris fought like a vicious thing; cornered as he was, every blow dealt towards him was reflected in the pain he sent towards his attackers.

The bones too had reformed themselves, and shambling corpses clattered his way, rusty swords out for blood. He cleaved several of them apart in one swing of his sword, shattering them back to solitary bone as they came towards him in wave after wave.

Fenris swung Celebrant in great wide arcs, maximizing the damage dealt to the demons. They scattered from him while the bones closed in, attempting to get out of his reach to use their long range attacks without fear of retribution.

Strangely enough upon seeing the demons, his pursuers did not flee, Fenris noticed as he took a breath. Instead, they increased their pace in excavating the wall.

He had to find a way out and soon. He had no way if it would turn into a free-for-all, or if they would instead work together at killing him. He ran through the room, adrenaline and desperation helping him to kill each enemy in one swing.

Then the room rumbled, a slow shaking that gradually increased as a massive behemoth coalesced from the mist that filled the room.

Fenris sucked in a breath. A pride demon. He'd faced several in his time with Hawke, and this one had a shadow-like pattern that twisted around it like vines. He widened his stance, slung the demon ichor off his blade, and prepared for battle. With a team of four, fighting a pride demon was difficult. He didn't want to think on the odds of facing it alone. Still, he was always the one who carried the bulk of the battle, and so he lifted his sword with both his hands and charged, aiming for the back of the legs and the knees, anything to tip the demon over.

The pride demon shot a streak of lightning at him. Fenris phased out for a moment, mitigating some of the magical damage. Loathe as he was rely on it, he missed Hawke's arcane shielding right about now as the bolt caused his hands to twitch, and he nearly dropped his sword.

The behemoth raised its hand and lashed out wide with its claws, laughing. Fenris brought his blade up to block, but his muscles were still responding slower than he was accustomed, and so the claws of the pride demon caught him across the stomach, slamming him backwards towards the wolf mural. He lit his lyrium in an attempt to lessen the damage, but he had not fallen toward the wall. No, he felt himself falling through inky blackness that swallowed him whole.

'Listen!' a quiet voice whispered.

Fenris woke up in a cold sweat and gasped, Hawke's name on his lips. He sat up, the blankets falling off his chest to pool around his waist. He was naked. He shivered, and then swung his legs over the edge of the bed, touching his feet to the cold marble floor. He grasped the thick duvet, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

As his vision cleared, he paid more attention to the room This...was not the mansion abandoned by Danarius. As he took in the room, Fenris saw elements of the Tevinter style, but this was decidedly not it. As a matter of fact, it lacked many of the attributes seen in any architecture with which he was familiar.

While ornate, the room was rather understated. A massive fireplace took up one side, the carving below the mantle depicting a pair of wolves howling at the moon, running through the forest, chasing a halla. The fire was lit. It had a high arched ceiling, almost reminiscent of Orlais but not quite. A chandelier hung low from it, and it was done in a gold and green mosaic. Fenris thought it resembled a massive tree, but he couldn't be sure.

The bed upon which he had been laying had a massive canopy. He touched the fabric of the tied curtains. The red cloth felt expensive, and gold rimmed the black polished wood.

His stomach churned. He did not know this place. Anxiety sent waves of sensation crawling through him, raising the hair on the back of his neck. Fenris couldn't remember how he arrived here or where here even was. He rose from the bed and dressed quickly in his armor, which was on the stand next to the headboard, and donned his cloak. He grabbed Celebrant from its place against the wall at the head of the bed as well as its harness. He slung both of them over his back and immediately felt better.

A giant arched window filled most of the left side of the room, but it was covered with red brocade curtains. He pulled the golden cord on the end by its tassel, and the curtains slid back without a sound. Lightning flashed in the night, and though he tried the handle of the balcony door, it wouldn't open.

Rain hit the glass of the window hard, causing it to rattle. Fenris looked out the window, but he couldn't see much beyond the balcony. The edges of the white stone were shrouded in mist, and the further he looked out, the thicker the fog became. Lighting struck again, and this time Fenris thought he saw a hooded figure snarl at him, blood dripping down and pooling at their feet.

Fenris waited for the lightning to strike again. He scanned the balcony again, but this time there was no one there. Shivering, he closed the window curtain, his tawny skin pale.

He padded silently to the thick oak door. He passed the fireplace, and turned in surprise as he realized the fire wasn't giving off any heat. He placed his hand close enough to hurt, and while the skin didn't warm, he felt a sharp pain as if he had been burned.

Fenris stared at his hand, palm up. The tips of his fingers were red. He clenched his hand into a fist and dropped it to the side. Something strange was going on. He shifted from foot to foot, and then continued on through the door, pausing only a moment to take note of the red jewels in the doorknob.

The hall he entered was narrow with a ceiling three times as high as the bedroom's, if not more, covered by dark wood flooring and rugs. He could see bannisters from the stairs above. Paintings covered seemingly almost every square inch of available space, leaving room only for sconces and doorways. The lights glowed a ghostly veilfire blue, and only those closest to him were lit.

Many of the paintings were of landscapes. Verdant hills, amber fields of wheat, all seasons seemed to be represented. He had two choices, left or right. Both of them looked about the same. Making his decision, he took a right, walking down the hall instead of up. There seemed to be as many doors as paintings. He tried several of them, only to find them locked. As he walked, the veilfire followed him, lighting in front of him and snuffing behind him, leaving him uneasy. He saw steps to stairs below, but they were blocked off by a thick wrought-iron grate. No matter how he tried to force it open, it didn't budge, so he moved on.

Fenris suddenly felt eyes on him, and he whirled, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword, looking for the source. He glanced up, and saw a pale face with black holes for eyes. He blinked, and then there was nothing but a blank canvas. Still, the eyes remained in his mind, and he kept his hand on his sword as he walked down the hall. The feeling of being watched didn't leave him.

Another canvas appeared blank at first, but as he came closer to it, he saw that it was merely snow. A figure in a black cloak walked across a barren plain in a blizzard, leaving bloody footprints behind them towards a barren tree, while something shone just off canvas.

His feeling of unease grew as the hall continued on and on, seemingly without end, until he reached a set of large double doors on the left. Not seeing any other recourse, he tried the door, and to his surprise, it swung open.

As soon as he walked through the doors, though, they slammed shut behind him. He jiggled the doorknob, but it was locked, leaving him trapped in the new room. He pounded on the door with his fists, but it wouldn't budge. He kicked at the large floor vase in the room in frustration.

Scowling, he moved deeper past the anteroom to find himself in a room filled with books. Bookshelves filled the room, leaving cramped narrow paths, while the ceiling remained high. The room was decorated with a lot of tapestries and little golden statuettes. Some of them were the wolves he'd come to expect to see, but others depicted slaves in chains, kneeling down and crying out, and one could almost be Kirkwall with its chain boom draped between the big bronze Twins in the channel. As he walked over to observe it more closely, it probably was, though the city itself seemed nowhere near the reality.

Fenris jerked around as he heard a scuttling sound. There was nothing there. He walked a bit farther in, ducking behind one of the bookshelves. This time, there was the sound of something heavy scraping across the floor.

He peered beyond the shelf and saw that the heavy vase by the door had moved, though there had been no one to move it. 

Thoroughly spooked now, Fenris tried to calm his racing heart. He curled his lip. He refused to be afraid, not over something foolish like this. Mage trickery. Hn.

Fenris turned back to the shelf and ran a spiked gauntlet finger over the spines of the books. They had no titles, nothing but color to differentiate among them. He stopped on a red one. Fenris pulled it from the shelf. The cover was embossed with gold filigree. He opened it, turning through the first couple of pages. It was blank. He grabbed the bulk of the pages and ran his thumb over them like a flip book, checking each page.

Nothing.

It was completely devoid of content.. He tossed the book to the floor and grabbed another one. Same thing. He grabbed another and another and another, and nothing changed. All of them were completely empty. He tossed the last book to the floor and stalked through the path between the shelves, taking out books at random, throwing them to the floor once he was finished. Not a single one of them contained any words.

Before he knew it, he had reached the end of the shelves where it opened into a little rotunda. The marble floor was done in a whirling circular design, and an Orlais-style chaise was there, piled high with cushions. On the other side facing it was a mirror of dark glass, framed by a plain arch of tarnished silver. Inside it were unfathomable swirling mists, shadows that moved and bespoke of horror.

Fenris moved over to it, drawn as if in a dream, ignoring the fluttering noise that sounded from behind him. Something pulled at his heart, and he had no choice. He reached out towards it and then faltered, curling his hand, before reaching out again and barely trailing the glass with the tip of his finger. The mirror rippled where he touched it, and then a single jagged line spread from his fingertip down, down, down, cracking the glass.

He jerked his hand back, but the damage had already been done. The crack spread with a sound like thunder, racing its way across the mirror face. Over the sound of the mirror breaking, the fluttering grew louder until he was surrounded by books diving at him, flying around him, and snapping at him with their covers.

Before he could grab his sword to attack, the books formed a large mass and pushed him, biting and cutting him with their edges, and he ended up stumbling backwards through the broken mirror.

He landed hard on his back in a room filled with grey mists swirling low to the ground. Celebrant scraped across the stone floor. He gazed up at the mirror, but it grew dark as he watched, the light disappearing into nothingness. Considering what happened, he didn't want to chance touching it again.

Fenris attempted to sit up, only to have have his breath catch, the sharp heat of pain spreading across his abdomen. He held a palm to himself and came away with a handful of blood. He looked down. A sweeping set of claw marks had dug deep into his flesh. Gritting his teeth, he put his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding, holding it for a few minutes, before grabbing a roll and wrapping a bandage around it. Fenris tied it awkwardly. He rose to his feet, ignoring the pain by taking in the new setting.

Mirrors circled around and around, spreading outward in a concentric pattern from thirteen mirrors in the circle in front of him to seventeen behind and even more behind that one, stretching outward as far as he could see. The place he was in didn't appear to have a ceiling, instead seeming as if it were a dim sky. The floor likewise appeared to be made of a dark grey porous stone.

They were mirrors like the one Merrill had so long ago kept in her possession. He snarled in frustration. There were thousands of them, evenly spaced, centered around a shining golden light that cut through the grey darkness, concentric circles spreading ever outward, staggered so that one could never see a direct path through. It seemed an insurmountable task to find his way out. He strode forward.

Then Fenris hesitated, looking at the mirrors some distance behind him. He had a fine memory, but he could not recall which mirror he'd taken to reach this place. Many of them were dark, yes. They must have been shattered in the reality outside of the wherever-this-was, paths closed forever more. The design had been simple, that he did know, with the lack of an arched point, common in so many others in here.

He couldn't see it though, no matter how hard he looked, walking past each mirror, examining it carefully, footsteps picking up the pace, causing eerie staccato echoing. The room swirled around him in a haze, mists curling at his feet, reaching out for him with their thick, ephemeral fingers.

A figure walked towards him, out of the black. Fenris paused, stance open and wary.

“I do not know how you reached this place, but you should leave,” they said. Fenris couldn’t tell as to whether they were male or female. They had a dual-layered voice, and it could have been either. Their whole body was shrouded in the blasted mist that covered everything here. Fenris looked at them hard, trying to discern their features through the shifting mists, but it was impossible.

“I would, if I knew where to go,” Fenris said, matter-of-fact. He stood deceptively loose, ready for anything.

“It hunts. It is not satisfied, and you have awakened its hunger,” they said.

“What is the meaning of this nonsense?” Fenris said, curling his lip. “I would have you clarify.”

“You need to leave now. It hungers!” they said. “Black, black, black; they touched the broken fallen and the disease spread from love through greed and pride. And now these ancient pathways shatter and fall one by one as the knowledge spreads like a disease! You should not be here!”

“Yes, both you and I are dissatisfied!” Fenris said, waving his hand, “Now, instead of muttering nonsense, I desire the path out of this place!”

They wailed, a sharp keening cry, and the volume of it forced Fenris to his knees with his hands over his ears. It was almost more than he could stand when another sharp screech echoed throughout the open space. It sounded like the cry of a hawk or falcon. He stood and cast his eyes about the sky, but he didn't see anything other than the pillar of light.

The sound drove the apparition away, hairlike tendrils streaking towards him to impale him before the cry sounded again and again, each time driving the monstrous form further and further back until it was gone. 

He followed the sound through the grey, passing circle after circle of mirrors until he came within view of the center of the circle. Three mirrors surrounded a figure in black, laid out on a richly furnished white bed. Fenris stopped dead. The figure on the bed looked familiar.

No, it couldn't be. He sprinted forward. “Hawke!” he cried out, only to hear his own voice mocking him with Hawke, Hawke, Hawke until the echo finally faded into nothing.

Fenris fell to his knees before the bed as his legs gave out. “Hawke,” he said again, this time quietly, taking her wrist and running his hand over hers, He felt something like a jolt as he touched her bare skin, not caring he was leaving a trail of blood behind.

Her pale skin was even more washed out with tinges of bluish-purple here and there. It made her ruby lips and black hair stand out, the slash of red across her nose looking worn and faded in comparison. He touched her again, ran his hand across her face and felt for breath, then down to her neck to feel for a pulse.

There was no life here. Only the illusion of it. Fenris hated illusions.

Face as stoic and as cold as stone, Fenris gathered her up to his chest, supporting her neck with his arms, and laid her head against him. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, her cold skin freezing his insides, and held her for the longest time, murmuring apologies in her ear that she would never hear. She wasn't stiff, but she was dead, though she looked as if she were only sleeping. He ignored the tears falling from his eyes. He couldn't leave her here.

Fenris pushed her dark fringe out of her face and stood, wincing as the weight of Hawke twisted the wound on his stomach. Red blossomed across the faded white bandage carelessly wrapped around his stomach. Blood dripped down his legs, staining his battered black armor even further. He walked forward, still strong and vibrant and steady despite his injury. Fenris nearly dropped Hawke as the room listed, but he gritted his teeth and held on tightly until the room righted itself.

He didn't know where he was going, but anywhere was better than here. He walked back to where he had come from, still looking for the mirror. It was slow glowing; he had a slight limp, and his wound caused him to nearly drop her more than once.

He'd scarce made it past the golden pillar of light when he heard a rumbling sound, low and distant and first and then louder as it built up quicker and quicker and grew closer and closer. Then the ground underneath him started shaking, and the far corners started to fade away into nothing.

A loud fluttering sound filled the air. Fenris picked up the pace. The wind rose, ruffling the hood of his cloak as it whistled through the spaces between the mirrors until it howled, nearly pushing him over with its force.

Fenris just gritted his teeth, adjusting Hawke in his arms, and strode forward, still looking for the exit.

The place rumbled again, and Fenris saw the solid ground surge up from the mists and break apart into crows, metallic black wings glittering in the light. More and more came to him, circling him as the quaking increased.

The murder of crows cawed at him, their crimson eyes gleaming, the wind seeming to catch their wings and drive them forward. One dived at him, attempting to peck out his eyes, while another spread out its talons and scraped a large gash in his left arm.

Fenris tightened his grip on Hawke and slouched over her to protect her from their vicious attack. He ran through the mirrors, looking for an active one. Hawke was already dead, he would join her at this rate, and he had no desire to. He had to get her out of this cursed place so she could rest in peace and not be devoured by those demons.

'Listen!' a voice said.

Pah. Demons. He growled, picking up the pace. No matter where he went, the tiger remained at his back, no matter how often he killed it. Magic!

The ground shook in faster intervals, now.

'Help!' 

Just then, he heard the cry again, and he looked up. The golden pillar of light had disappeared—or morphed—and in its place was a bright golden-brown ball. It dive-bombed his head, and then screamed at the crows with a large shrieking cry, raking inch thick talons down their backs.

The amber ball was a hawk with veilfire blue eyes shining out from its spectral form. The black crows disappeared into smoke, yet still the number increased as the room around him grew smaller, breaking apart to form more and more of the simulacrums. The hawk with the ghostly eyes screamed again, attacking crow after crow, going after the ones closest to Fenris.

Fenris took the time to run while the spirits were distracted.

A mass of crows followed him, streaming into one long black ribbon as the path on which Fenris was standing crumbled, growing ever smaller.

He was running out of time; he chose a mirror at random, the arched point viciously sharp and glass gleaming darkly, and stepped inside. The world spun for a moment, and he stepped out of the warm nothingness.

Bitterly cold wind howled around Fenris, whipping his cloak nearly from him. He looked down. His hands were free, and he saw no sign of Hawke. He didn't drop her; there was no time for her to have been buried in the snow. He knew all this was strange, some kind of maleficarum trickery or something far more sinister, but he couldn't remain. To stand still and stagnate was to die. The cold would kill him. He had to navigate this place until he found an exit.

It was like a dream, this white static. Perhaps he was asleep. Perhaps the assailants that had been chasing him through the cavern had found him after all, and this was the afterlife, not that he put much stock in such things. He had heard no news from Hawke. Perhaps she had joined him here. Perhaps that was the meaning of this dream.

He shivered. Even after all the time in Kirkwall, he was used to the warmth of the south, and the oiled cloak did not keep him near warm enough. He wrapped the cloak tighter around himself, but it didn't stop the ice-white teeth of the winter wolf from biting at his face, shards of ice stinging and cutting his cheeks as he faced the wind.

He turned with the wind, looking behind him, making the driving snow hit the back of his cloaked head instead. The mirror behind him was unlike the other side. It was as the one in the library had been. Plain tarnished silver with no statuary or adornments. It swallowed the light.

Something hit him in the face. He reached up to pull it off. It was a scarlet scarf. He looked up, but didn't have any clue where it had come from. Still, Fenris slipped the scarf on, covering his mouth and nose, immediately instilling him with a sense of warmth, leaving nothing but his startling green eyes visible from the dim light of the mirror behind him.

But each step was torture. Blood flowed from the wound in his stomach and pooled at his feet, and as he walked, he left a trail of bloody footprints behind him. The cold cut through the thin leather on his feet, leaving only the barest protection between him and the snow. He could already feel his toes begin to numb.

He staggered and the world shook around him. A feeling of panic welled up inside of him; it was not his own.

'Listen,' the Voice said.

He put his palms to his head, gritting his teeth. His lyrium flared of its own accord, lighting up the night and shining out of the blizzard like a beacon. He fought to keep it under control, a constant struggle, a feeling of heat and pressure even in the desperate cold. 

'Fenris, Listen!' it said again, more insistently.

Fenris took a deep breath, held it for a long moment, and then released it slowly, focusing on forcing the feeling down. No, he thought at the Voice. It worked, for now. He felt less like an explosion about to happen. But still, the Voice itched around his skull.

'Listen, please!'the Voice said again, this time with a little more desperation in its tone.

“I said no!“ Fenris growled over the wind.

Something forced its way through him, taking control of his hands. He clenched his fists unconsciously. The world around him spun in a blaze of cold and heat and pain; his vision flared white-hot and blended with the forever white of the snow, which stretched out as far as the eye could see, dotted only here and there with trees, like the little dark specks in the eyes after staring at the sun.

Fenris fought it down, his hands shaking as he pushed his will to overcome the Voice. After an eternal moment, he finally forced it down, taking in great gulps of air, suddenly exhausted. 

A shadow crossed his eyes, and he looked up to see a tree, its bare branches reaching up to claw at the sky. The wind whistled by, causing the tree to creak, and Fenris reached out, touching the bark. The tree was dead, and had been for a long time. The roots twisted into impossible shapes at the base, rising above the snow.

His cloak fell from his arm, showing Hawke's favor, so bright against the white of the snow. Bright like the streak of red against her pale skin.The tattered edges of the cloak rustled around his feet, caught by the wind.

Something glittered at the base of the tree in a hole made by the knots of the roots. Fenris picked it up; it was a little ivory pendant of a wolf, with glittering emerald pieces for the eyes. It bared its teeth at Fenris, its fangs colored red.

The ghostly hawk screamed again and dove for the pendant, catching it in its talons and winging away with it, flying into the wind.

‘You’re going the wrong way!’ the Voice said. And then the Voice pushed.

Fenris fell against the tree as something white-hot surged within him, causing him to stagger. He tried fighting against it this time, but it was just too much—he was too tired and cold, and even now his wound seemed to leech his strength from him. He fell to his hands and knees in the snow, baring his teeth, trying to force whatever it was down with his will like he did before.

He felt so cold. He was losing feelings in his hands and arms; he had no sensation at all in the fingers that were curled into the snow.

It didn’t work this time. After a long moment, it passed, and he stood up. Straight up, not his deceptively relaxed slouch.

But it wasn’t under his own power. He reached down and looked at his hands, turning them back and forth to look at the front and back, but it wasn’t him doing it. He felt panic well up inside of him again, only to be replaced with a distant calm.

Such a strange feeling, to be outside oneself watching oneself. Was this to be his fate then, replaced and turned into an abomination? All his fighting, all his running away, and in the end, it hadn’t been enough.

What was it, he idly wondered, what sin had he let in? Pride, no, a slave was never proud, not even former ones. Sloth? No, he actively killed slavers, and didn’t give in to fear or despair. Desire? No, slave learned not to want.

“Rage would be your best bet,” he heard his own voice say, but he didn’t speak the words, “but I’m not a demon, you know,” his mouth said.

‘That is what they all say,’ he thought, and struggled again, attempting to force the Voice down and gain control of his body. They fought briefly for a moment, before he found himself shoved to the side of his conscious. It didn’t work. ‘Then what are you?’

“I...don’t know, but I know I’m not a demon. Anything but that.” Fenris felt his body shiver in revulsion at the comparison to a demon, could feel the bile welling up in his throat. He longed to move his legs, anything to just get away, but his body just wouldn’t respond to his commands.

‘If you don’t know, then there is no way to prove you aren’t a demon,’ Fenris snapped back immediately.

“Nothing to prove I am,” the Voice responded. “This place is pretty drab, isn’t it? Just ice and white, as far as the eye can see. Dreadfully boring, if I do say so. And I do, by the way.”

Fenris said nothing. What could he say to that? That he had let himself become some kind of abomination, like the mage?

Fenris felt his arms sweep out. “Ugh, how do you deal with this? Letting yourself bleed all over the place, honestly. Do you really want to die?” With that the Voice took one of his hands and laid it across his stomach. It began pouring an abundance of magic into it, and slowly he felt his flesh knit together. “Is that what this is all about? You wanting to die?”

Fenris was stunned. ‘I am no mage, how are you doing this?’

The Voice ignored him, “And you’re freezing too, Maker, this is ridiculous,” and with that, Fenris felt the air above his hand ignite and a ball of warmth surrounded him, easing the bite of the cold. “Mmm, much better.” Special attention was paid to his bare toes, which were turning purple in the snow.

The accent and the tone of the voice were all wrong, but it was his voice speaking. Fenris shored up the fragments of himself, following the thread of self that he felt, and pushed as the Voice had once done. He felt his fingers twitch, he clenched his fingers in a fist, but then he felt his other hand slap him softly on the wrist. “Stop that!” he said.

“How did you get caught out here anyway? This place is freezing, you’re not wearing shoes.” Fenris felt his head tilt. “Well, I’m not wearing shoes. But it’s your fault,” it said cheerfully. That tone of voice sounded remarkably odd on Fenris. “I would have worn shoes.”

‘I. Don’t. Know.’ Fenris imagined gritting his teeth as he said that, ‘And who are you to question my shoes or lack thereof? You took control of my body, without permission I might add. How is that possible?’ If a demon could be let in without one’s consent, then the what happened with the templar recruit took on a new light. Fenris never thought he would be that weak.

“You got me there,” Fenris heard himself admit, and then there was blessed silence as the Voice paused in the middle of the snowy plain. And then he started walking again. Or his body did. Fenris felt the beginnings of a headache coming on, although it wasn’t actually his head that ached. How did you ache without access to a head? Fenris growled at himself. He was ignoring the real problem and focusing on the inanities. Too much time spent around Hawke.

Of course, if Hawke had been here instead of off galavanting with the Inquisition—Fenris didn’t trust the large organization by default, damn her invariable need to help; Fenris just knew it would get her into trouble one of these days, and he couldn’t always be by her side—she would have said that the real problems stay the same, that there was always going to be death and destruction and pain, that the inanities where what made life grand and kept it interesting.

“I like her!” the Voice said decisively, trudging through the ankle-high snow. Slush, really, as it melted from the heat of the fireball as they went.

And now because of the Voice, even his thoughts of her felt tainted. Just the fact that it could even access his thoughts, the one thing he thought he had left to him. He didn’t want to believe that body was hers in truth when everything so far had been bizarre and malleable, and yet...and yet—

Something about it felt true. The rumor was the Herald of Andraste had torn the barriers of the world asunder. Fenris didn’t want to think about it. He had run into a cave somewhere near the Waking Sea, and now he was here: wherever here was, what was that if not some sort of magic trickery?

The Voice pulled him from his thoughts. “You could thank me, you know,” the Voice said. “I did save your life.”

‘You possessed me and infected me with magic, yes I’m ever so grateful,’ Fenris said. To be a puppet again was almost more than he could bear. The anger rose in him so fiercely he could feel his lyrium light of its own accord. The Voice struggled to maintain control against the bright burning of his anger, and inside, Fenris smiled. It was a start. He could use this. But he would bide his time.

“Yeah, I thought so,” the Voice said, brushing off Fenris’s attempt at regaining control and ignoring the tone of sarcasm in Fenris’s thoughts.

Still, the blizzard swirled around them, though it was somewhat mitigated by the constant heat of the magic the Voice was giving out. It occasionally nattered on, but Fenris was beyond listening to the demon that had turned him into an abomination. He watched, and he waited, a prisoner in his own body. Fenris didn’t know how they knew where they were going.

The long arduous trek lasted for what seemed like days, but the night never turned to day. It just kept snowing. Fenris thought that they might have escaped the place they were in, the place that strange mirror that was so much like Merrill’s led to, but no. This was just another facet of it.

His body pressed on. Fenris, biding his time. The Voice would eventually make a mistake, and then Fenris would be there to take back what was his.

And as they walked, the mountains grew closer and closer, white hoary heads that reached above the sky. The Voice had some singular purpose. It moved his body unerringly in a direction that led them higher and higher into the snowy mountains.

Fenris couldn’t see much through the white static of the snow, but as they walked up the mountainous treeline, he began to notice shapes. Unusual shapes, reminding him of the statues in the Gallows. They looked almost like statues, but something was off. They were too perfect, too well-made, and even the driving snow from the blizzard avoided them

An elven couple, holding one another, the taller figure wrapping their arm around the smaller as if to protect them. Another elf on her knees, hair shorn, appearing to be clawing her eyes out. The farther they went up the mountain, the more of them there were, and the more violent they became: one was a man bent over double, clutching his head, his flesh literally melting off his face and hands in white fragments that spread outwards, like a scattering of stars in the night sky.

A man holding the broken twisted body of an infant in his arms, his face carved in great sorrow.

Another had a group of elves circling around, wearing ancient ornate armor, daggers raised while still others stabbed a tall elven woman, one slashing at her throat, a fountain of white blood spraying, forever in the moment. It was a grotesque study of the transition of power, all of them set like players on a stage.

Then it hit him. They were elves, all of them, all in various stages of pain and grief and death. Fenris watched the scenes unfold from a distance, but even the Voice paused his body, just staring at them, his face contorting into something like sadness and pain.

Then it straightened his spine, and they moved on. But the scene lingered in Fenris’s mind. He couldn’t forget their pain.

The wind blew more harshly the higher they went. Still the Voice marched on unerringly until finally they seemed to reach what it was looking for. “Here we are,” it said gravely. “The way out.”

‘Glorious,’ Fenris thought.

“Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud!” The Voice said. “If I’d left it to you, not only would you be dead in a ditch somewhere, if you somehow survived the stomach wound, you would have died anyway because you didn’t know where you were going!”

‘And just how did you know?’ Fenris asked.

“I—I don’t know,” the Voice admitted, sounding perturbed.

Fenris gave a mental scoff. ‘And here you wanted me to trust you.’

The Voice bristled, leaning forward and putting their hands on their hips, as if there were anyone around to see their posturing. “I may not know what I am, but I do know what I’m not. And I may not know how I know, but I do know that this is the way out.”

They stood at a massive door, taller than Fenris by several times. It was about as wide as he was tall as well. The Voice pulled hard on it; it was nearly frozen shut. They set their feet and yanked. Little by little, it started to creak open. When there was enough room, the voice abandoned their efforts and slipped in.

The moment the Voice and Fenris slipped in, veilfire rushed down the sconces dotting the walls through the nave. It was built almost like an older chantry, with a clear elven influence, which was fitting considering the statues leading up to this place. The room inside was massive, a true Great Hall, held up by columns and a rib-vaulted ceiling with boss embellishments of snarling wolf heads where the arches met on the keystones. Small arches dotted the walls between the side columns, which were actually statues, and two arcades ran along the sides. There were two doors ahead, and four inside leading off to what were presumably more rooms as Fenris walked through.

The marbled floor had a labyrinth in its tiles, but large sections of the floor were missing, the marble cracked or broken.

Brilliant verdant images covered the ceiling, stories of the elven gods or heroes, had to be. They had pointed ears. Fenris didn’t know much about them, but even he could guess at some of the stories they told from the brilliant art. War and pain and death and heartbreak. It had been painted in bright colors, though parts of them were faded due to time. Statues, some familiar from his time with Hawke and some not, filled the back of the building in niches on the wall, held up in places of honor. In the center of them though, was what they had been looking for. A plain-looking mirror, backlit by something magic. The way out.

The Voice was more impressed with the room than he was, walking through the room slowly, taking it all in until they reached the front of the room. It had a high, domed ceiling, and the painting of a sun on one side, people worshipping it with green fields and a golden glow and what looked like falling stars and the end of the world on the other side while people covered their heads from falling debris and the world burned in fire.

And in the center was a pool of something black. The pool was large and wide and deep, and whatever was in it bubbled and moved and breathed.

The Voice moved Fenris’s body a step back as something within the pool moved. A loud hiss, sounding almost like a low roar filled the room. Fenris’s fingers twitched. He missed the Celebrant. He only wished he had another sword. An axe or a warhammer would do just as well at this point. The Voice seemed to think along similar lines, as Fenris’s hands twitched and readied themselves with fire.

And then a monstrous white thing inched its way out of the pool, ichor dripping from every limb, and it had a lot of limbs, jointed and chitinous with dagger-like tips. It had a smallish head compared to what he could see of its flattened, segmented body so far, and bright yellow fangs, and far too many legs for Fenris to count, with bright yellow antennae. Its wedged head had some kind of long feelers on it and his disgust only grew as more and more of it escaped the pool. Every time it moved it rustled, a nasty scrabbling sound that sent chills running down Fenris’s spine. Either the Voice was feeling it too, or his disgust was just that palpable.

The tips of its many legs dug into the ground, and with dawning horror, Fenris realized where the cracks on the floor had come from. It reared back, and the Voice moved his eyes from the red demon eyes to the three sets of jaws.

It dove for him. Fenris dodged left, the Voice in his head wanted to dodge right, and they struggled for control of his body, Fenris’s emotions rising, weakening the Voice’s grip.

In the end, they didn’t move, locked in the struggle as they were, and the beast drove two-inch long fangs into Fenris’s shoulder, attempting to chew and gnaw on him. It stabbed through his armor with ease, and Fenris wasn’t sure which one of them used his voice to cry out.

“Hey, you’re going to get us killed!” the Voice said, grunting in pain as it used Fenris’s hands to push with all its might to stop the fangs from devouring them.

‘It’s my body!’ Fenris roared in his head. ‘You’re the one that needs to get out!’ he said, and wrenched almost total control from the Voice, planting his foot on the thing’s head and kicking, kicking, kicking. It hissed in pain as one of his blows hit its eye. relieved to have control again.

The Voice still tried to wrest it back. ‘I’m only trying to help!’ it said, and then managed to regain control of them for a brief moment to fire a massive fireball in the monster’s face. It shrieked and reared back, but Fenris regained just enough control of himself to stay still.

“I’d rather die than have you possess me! Let it come!” Fenris snarled through clenched teeth, forcing himself to remain in place as the large beast writhed in pain, waiting for it all to end so at least this farce would be over. He would not let this thing wear his face.

‘No! I can’t let that happen!’ the Voice said.

“Because you’ll lose your chance to get out of here?” Fenris growled.

‘Because I’ll lose you, and that would still be a waste of a perfectly handsome elf!’ the Voice wailed.

“Hawke?” Fenris breathed.

‘Who?' the Voice asked.

But the damage had already been done. Hope bloomed inside him like a wildfire. The smallest bit of doubt grew inside Fenris, and after seeing her corpse laid out in that place, he hadn’t dared hope. He’d promised to remain at her side, and he’d kept that up faithfully until she had sent him away.

That same doubt was enough for an idea to spark as the veilfire gleamed off something in the corner. “We work together,” Fenris said. “Think we can find a way?”

'What?' the Voice said 'Why the change of heart?' it asked suspiciously.

“Because I don't think this is the way the minstrels mean when they say 'two become one,' but you were never one to follow convention,” Fenris said, not answering the question at all. And now her sense of humor had rubbed off on him, too. “Can you do your magic while I fight it?”

'I'll try. I don't even know if we can share control like that,' the Voice said, for the first time hesitant.

By this time, the monster had shaken off the effects and the panic, and set its attention back on Fenris. Fenris struggled to his feet; having unconditional control of his body once again felt wonderful. He made to circle around and go for the mirror, but the segmented body blocked him, the dagger-sharp legs stabbing wildly.

The monstrous thing lunged at him again, and this time Fenris felt his lyrium light of its own accord. The Voice pushed, but this time it wasn't to take control. He felt his lyrium pulse, and a wave of spiritual force lashed out at the thing, burning through its chitinous shell. While it jerked back in pain, disoriented, Fenris dove for the greatsword on the stand it the corner, pausing only a brief moment to note the mark of Vercenne de Halamshiral on the hilt.

He lifted it above his head and slashed downward, the sharp sword cutting into the insect-like armor of the beast. It cracked loudly, but made it through, and Fenris heard it do the hiss-squeal again. Fenris did it again, cutting off one of its numerous legs as it crawled and curled around, twisting its long segment body in order to get at him. It bled black ichor from the wounds, spotting its white body.

The Voice pulsed his lyrium again, this time stunning the monster. “It worked!” it said, using Fenris's voice, excited. Fenris still retained control over his physical actions, but he tried to speak and it didn't work. He didn't let it bother him though, instead circling around and catching his breath, his resentment building as he took out all of his frustrations on its legs.

It didn't help though, as each leg grew back, though with noticeably less chitin armor covering it.

As he took the next swing, he felt himself trip and he fell to the floor “Sorry!” the Voice said to him while making him roll to avoid the dagger fangs of the enormous centipede. “Wrong limb!”

It was Fenris who pushed himself to his feet, rushed at the monster and sliced off several legs, but then it was the voice that rested the flat of his blade on his shoulder and used one palm to channel a cone of fire, cauterizing the legs.

They didn't grow back. “Success!” Fenris said, pumping his arm and whooping, and then dodging to the side. Fenris took back control just in time for it to stab through his side. It glanced off his ribs, so it wasn't that bad, but he was already bleeding from his shoulder, the black gunk covering it, and this time he felt woozy, more so than the wound would have normally warranted.

'Poison!' the Voice said. 'Find a way to distance ourselves, we need to heal!'

Fenris swung his sword outward in a wide arc, and then thrust at its eyes, blinding it. It still found him with unerring ease, using its legs to stab at him as it tried to pounce on him to devour him. His greatsword had longer reach than any of its limbs, but not by much. He was able to keep out of its reach, but at the same time, he couldn't get with a striking distance where force would be useful, or far enough away the Voice could heal the poison, and as it wound around the nave, Fenris realized it was trying to trap him within the confines of its body.

Fenris couldn't let that happen. “Any ideas?” he asked the Voice in his head.

Fenris felt his fingers snap. “Fire weapons!” His blade ignited, and Fenris lit into the insect-like thing with wild abandon, using his pain and rage to fuel his fury. The fire ensured that the wounds wouldn't heal or grow back, at least in theory. The monster bore one of its legs down into Fenris's foot. Fenris gritted his teeth and chopped of the leg, pulling out the large point.

He carved deep gouges into the exoskeleton, and with each hit the monster lashed and fought harder. Fenris by this time had a lot of wounds, and they were causing him to slow. He staggered forward, swinging again, limping forward, nearly slipping in his own blood.

Finally, he managed to completely stab through the thing's head, using all his might to pin it to the floor.

It wiggled and thrashed, undulating all over the place. It wouldn't be long before the sword would loose, and he'd be in an even worse position, seeing as how he didn't have a weapon anymore. He still couldn't make it through to the mirror, not without risking being knocked to the wall or knocked out.

He stole to the arcade, leaning on one of the statue columns, and held his other hand to his shoulder, while the Voice cast several spells through it. He and the Voice were reaching an equilibrium and were working together without fighting for control. He did the same for his foot.

But the thing about magical healing was it wasn't perfect, and while the fang hadn't hit his artery or torn anything more than the skin and muscle, repeated use of the sword left it weak, and its grinding jaws had shredded his armor. He had no other recourse, or else he would have fled. He would have to end it. He could see no other way around it.

He took a deep breath and steadied himself. Once the Voice finished, they cast another spell to help him catch his breath, rejuvenating him and restoring some of his strength.

It was time to end it. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he ran full tilt at the abomination, avoiding its feelers, leaping on top of its head. He yanked the sword out, and then stabbed downward. It squealed, some of the ichor splashed up on Fenris's skin. It burned like acid on his bare skin, but he paid it no mind, stabbing again and again and again. It whipped around, throwing Fenris off.

He fell to the ground hard with as snapping sound as his lower leg broke with the force. He blacked out from the pain.

Fenris awoke some time later to find himself wrapping a splint around his leg. His head turned, and he saw the charred corpse of the deadly beast sitting in the corner. “You killed it,” he said.

'It was already dying thanks to you, I just finished it,' the Voice said, sending an image of stepping back, letting him take control. 'There. I healed you. It'll still be weak, but you should be able to manage. Can't do that again, though. I'm all tapped out. It'll take me some time to get it back.'

“You have my thanks,” Fenris said, surprising himself with the sincerity. How much could change in so little time with just one sentence.

The Voice was quiet in return, and seemed to retreat back inside his head, a wave of mental exhaustion hitting him as it did so.

He staggered to his feet, limping up the dais to the mirror in the chancel, where the statues in their niches surrounded it. Pausing only a moment to steady himself, he walked through it.

Fenris found himself in a similar place to before. Dark sky, hazy mist curling around his feet. He saw cracks in this place, the green light of what had to be the Fade shining through. This place was fragmented, disjointed, barely glued together. Through the large breach, he saw the ever present Black City. The Fade it was, then.

Even as he watched, parts of the room seemed to flake off and fade into the ether. He had to make this journey quickly then. He picked up the pace as much as he could, his weak leg making it difficult for him to walk. Still, he pressed on, moving to the set of five mirrors at the end of the corridor. Four of them were dark.

Only one choice, then.

He walked through, and found himself in a building much like the frozen wasteland he had just left. The only difference with this one was the quality of the structure.

This one had fallen long ago. Vines crawled up the rubble, and trees that appeared to be as tall as a mountain had broken through the roof. Instead of the black sludge, however, there was a shimmering green pool. It wasn't water, it wasn't the black that burned like acid. Fenris didn't attempt to go near it. He could feel it hum through his lyrium as he walked by, and that further strengthened his resolve.

Instead, he walked out of the ruined chantry-like building and into a wide circular clearing. Old gargantuan statues stood at the cardinal points, wearing imposing armor, done in a human or elven style, rather than dwarven.

A familiar screech, and something heavy settled on Fenris's good shoulder; he turned and met the shining blue eyes of the spectral hawk. It fluffed its wings, raising the feathers on the back of its head, but when Fenris didn't move to dislodge it, it settled down and started preening his hair.

Fenris blinked. A hawk...How had he not seen that connection before? Thoughts troubled, he moved through the clearing, wondering why the grass shimmered oddly, like metal in the summer heat. He'd moved in and out of so many doors, he was unable to tell what was real and what wasn't. The air wasn't warm, it shouldn't have given off such heat.

This entire thing had felt like a dream. Fenris just wondered when he would wake. It seemed parts of him were not him; rather, that he was disconnected from everything, including the pain. It just didn't feel real. He paused for a moment to look at the lyrium lining the bones of his hand. He curled it into a fist. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he moved on.

As he reached the middle of the clearing, he saw something move through the trees. He limped forward. The hawk on his shoulder made a soft noise, and the white thing that was moving through the trees paused. Fenris moved forward slowly, wary now. He remembered the snow white chitinous thing that thought it could make prey out of him, and prepared for anything.

A wolf with green eyes leapt out of the woods, ears back and head low. Was the color of its fur white or black? With the way it rippled in the sun, the color constantly shifting, it seemed it could be either. It didn't attack, but neither did it retreat. Instead it stared at him, pulling back his lips, growling something fierce. Fenris kept still. He heard nothing but the sound of his own breathing. In, out. In, out.

He felt eyes on him, cold eyes from behind them that caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise. Slowly, carefully, he took a step to the right.

When nothing happened, he took another, and another. The wolf moved with him, not showing his back to Fenris. He didn't blame him. Fenris and the wolf with the green eyes circled one another. He felt eyes on him again, but he dare not take his eyes off the wolf for even a moment.

Whatever could be watching him was dangerous, yes, but here was the immediate and present danger. Something might be coming for him from the shadows, but the wolf was closer. When he stopped, so did the wolf.

But then the hawk lit from his shoulder and swooped down and landed on its head. Acting on instinct, the hawk and Hawke on his mind, he reached out his hand ever so slowly, kneeling down, his palm out.

The wolf eyed him carefully. His leg ached, but something inside Fenris was curious as to what the wolf would do next. They stared at one another for the longest time, and then the wolf gave a soft huff, as if he had passed some sort of judgment. It sat back on its haunches, thumping its tail against the ground: once, twice

The hawk flew back to Fenris's shoulder, while the wolf tilted his head to the side.

“I do not know what you want,” Fenris said.

The wolf gave a soft whine, then nudged his hand, like it was begging to be scratched. Used to Hawke's mabari, Fenris indulged him. Then the wolf stood up and moved in front of Fenris, going back in the direction that Fenris had come from. He paused and looked back though, when Fenris didn't follow. He gave a quick bark, took a step or two forward, and Fenris followed him.

The wolf wagged his tail when he saw him trailing after him, and continued on through the ruins, backtracking through Fenris's already trodden path. It stopped at the lip of the pool, laying down in front of it with a quiet huff.

“I don't understand,” Fenris said.

Another whine, and then the wolf stood and pounced, disappearing into him. Both the surprise and the weight caused him to topple over, his weak leg giving out. The heel of his foot caught on the lip above the green shimmering pool.

He fell.

He fell for a long time.

He landed in a pile of rubble, and he struggled to his feet, looking around.

Well, he wasn't dead. That was something, at least. Once, this had been a grand hall. Broken spires rose above the broken ceiling, the ruins like sharp teeth biting the sky, ominous and foreboding, the halls below black and decrepit. It stood on a cliff, prominently pointed over the green abyss below. He'd been lucky to land here, and not somewhere below. He didn't wish to know what was there.

Black ooze dripped from near every surface, and with his bare feet, he had to be very, very careful about where he stepped. Fenris though he might ought to invest in some shoes one of these days. It hadn't been something that mattered until now.

It had been one constant thing after another, and he felt worn, used, wrung out. Still, he had to press on. There was no other option. He had to reach the end of this dream. He had to survive. He would survive.

Fenris walked through the blackened halls. This had once been a grand place. Signs of it could still be seen around in the ornate carving of the stone and the fragments of precious gems and blackened gold. Fenris stepped cautiously over the broken pillars. He was tired of this, whatever this was, yanking him around like a dog on a chain.

Fenris picked his way over the ruins for what seemed like an age when he felt it. Something coming, something big. The place had no wind, but he heard a rustling, growing louder and louder as something black swirled and twisted and grew in front of him, jumping around, never staying in one place.

Fenris took a half a step back unconsciously, and readied his greatsword. “Who are you? Show yourself, apparition!”

Black lightning hit the ground and coalesced into a very familiar shape. The Pride demon. The very same one he faced in the beginning. He could tell by the unusual markings. “It was you!” Fenris snarled.

A deep rumbling laugh. “Of a sorts. Have we met before? I don't recall. Your lives are so brief and fragmented,” it said. “Of course, now you've stumbled here, in this great Black City of mine, and I don't think I'm inclined to let you go.”

“Like a fly in a honey trap,” Fenris murmured, it dawning on him as he realized exactly where he was.

But all that meant nothing as the darkness that chased him before swirled around the pride demon, devouring it, morphing it, changing it, and it grew until Fenris reached his knee, towering over him. For the first time since this dream began Fenris felt real fear, a sick feeling that curdled his stomach as the cloak spread, sucking out all of the light, even the part that shone up from the abyss.

“I see it in your eyes,” A deep voice intoned. “Finally, you begin to understand,” said the shadow. Something slithered into view. “I am the One who is Formless, and you have found yourself in my lair.”

“Nice place you got here,” Fenris felt himself saying. “I must talk to your decorator.” The Voice! Hawke!

It ignored the quip. “They called this the 'place of love' once, I believe,” it said, forming a ball of glowing green that sparked angrily. “You couldn’t do this on your own. So young and so proud.”

“Whatever it was, it has nothing to do with me,” Fenris said. “I have no idea of what you speak.”

“You should have chosen your pseudonym better,” it intoned, pulsing, pulsating, practically glowing with power. “We have business to settle. You owe me, mage.”

Fenris scowled. “I am no mage.”

It ignored him. “Your connection to the Fade and the fact you reek of Pride’s magic says otherwise.

“Mother’s blood shed in those ancient hallowed halls, that golden gleaming city reduced to black rubble, gates of gold and pearly lacquer now reduced to nothing but ash. So much anger at the Evanuris, anger that we shared. The destruction was total and perfect, and yet now you deny us our revenge for locking us away. You will pay.”

“Wait! I do know you!” Fenris said, but it wasn't him. The Voice had found its words and was speaking through him. “You're the one of which the old moldy scraps speak. The last one. The last coward. The Warden gored Gaxkang. Fenris felled Xebenkeck. The Inquisitor impaled Imshael. All that's left is you!”

The Formless One roared in anger as he grew to the size of a mountain, dwarfing Fenris. 

“Is that supposed to frighten me? This cheap trick?” Fenris said.

“You will pay for what you've done!” The Formless One said in return.

“For the last time, I have done nothing!” Fenris yelled at the shifting shape.

'Can't you have any normal cases of mistaken identity?' the Voice asked.

“I hadn't realized there were any other cases of mistaken identity at present,” Fenris said. He swung his sword through the apparition; it went straight through, causing Fenris to stagger with the force behind it as inertia kept him going. Well, that didn't work. “Any ideas?”

'None at the moment!' They dodged as a massive fist came hurtling down, pulverizing the place he was standing before.

Fenris wobbled on his weak leg before catching himself on a bit of fallen wall. The sludge oozed, burning his hand, and he scowled, shaking the excess off before wiping his hand on his armor.

“Magic?” he asked the Voice. You used any tools available, and he was in too much danger to doubt its efficacy now.

'I'm still tapped out,' the Voice said.

“Of course,” Fenris said. He cast his eyes about, looking for something, anything with which to give a decisive blow. He found nothing but the rubble and blackened marble.

The Formless One gathered its strength and attacked again. Fenris dodged the heavy weight easily. It was massive, but it was slow, and even with his injured leg, Fenris easily outpaced anything the Formless One threw at him.

This carried on for some time before the demon got it into his thick head that its tactics weren't working, and so it shrank and split into shadow fighters, dozens of them, some kitted out as warriors, others kitted as rogues, some mages, but all of them fought with a deadly skill, and they shifted forms, so one could be a warrior one moment and a mage the next.

They engaged Fenris in melee, and with his hurt shoulder and leg, he was hard pressed to fend them off. Still, he did as best as he could, driving his sword down, swinging it wide, killing three or four of them at once only to reform.

Now his tactics weren't working. They did nothing to the multitude of shadows, while at the same time Fenris was tiring. He concentrated on all the hurt and pain he had ever faced, focused on it, dwelled on it, keeping a calm facade. He lit his brands and dove again into the melee, lashing out with a pulse of dark energy, causing the ones surrounding him to stagger, even some of them to pause, stunned. His ghosting ability eliminated most of the damage but not all, and some of their attacks were able to hit him even inside it.

But it took a lot of energy and he was running out of it. He was already low on stamina before he had even entered this battlefield. Since he had fled from whatever mad people were chasing after him, he had been constantly on the run, constantly fighting to stay alive, and it had taken its toll. But if he died, he would at least take them down with him.

“You won't die today. Not if I have any say,” the Voice said with his voice. Something pulsed within him with the beat of his heart, small but growing ever stronger with every passing moment. Around them, the dark stone grew ever darker, and the shadows started swirling into him.

Entropic energy. Something Hawke was not familiar with. Still, an arcane shield shimmered into place, mitigating some of the attacks they were sending his way. It was weak, but Fenris didn't need it to be strong.

Fenris attacked the Formless one with a new vigor, slicing each part of it to pieces, only for them to grow and reform and become ever more deadly.

With one more blast, he heard the Voice say if from a great distance away. 'I'm sorry. I can't! I don't have it in me any more,' and then there was another jolt, and a wrench in his mind, and some part of him that felt like he was slowly fading away.

He felt hollow, empty, so he grasped at it mentally, pulling it to himself and wrapping it in the deepest recesses of his mind. The throbbing in his leg increased. He could barely put any weight on it. And the shadows just kept coming, wave after wave attacking him. He limped back, struggling to get away as more and more injuries made it through his armor with each slice of their black blades.

He was going to die.

Fenris reached deep inside for the last of his stamina, pulling out everything he had, ready to put it all on one final, useless, swing.

And then it happened. He felt it, another jolt, a connection to a river he didn't know was there. He felt his mind open, and suddenly he knew. Spells upon spells filled his mind, every spell that the Voice knew; how to do it, how to attempt to maintain control, how not to let the spirits inside. All of it was there, slipping away even as he gained it. It was almost too much.

They were one.

But he held out a hand, and blasted a wave of shadows with the cone of cold. They froze, and then Fenris was in and out of them, whirling his blade around like a whirlwind, shattering them left and right, even as one brought a hammer down on his injured leg.

It hurt, and he thought he could feel the bone snap again, but he bore through the pain, casting a fireball, causing them to scatter in a panic, and then a chain of lighting, bringing them down while they attempted to flee.

One used his sword to slice Fenris's arm open, and the blood flowed freely. It was so tempting to use channel the power he could feel welling up inside; such as that it actually burned to force himself back from the power that whispered through it. If this is what mages had to go through every time they cut themselves, it was a wonder that they weren't all mad.

And just a little, he felt sympathy for that restraint. He cast a small spell over himself, a general regeneration to help him make it through this last battle. He didn't think he was going to make it.

Fenris fired off another cold spell, freezing the Formless One's many twisted shapes before smashing them with a sword and shattering them into a thousand million pieces.

Still, it was slowly adapting to that tactic, turning into various shapes until it finally reformed as a black wolf with five or so eyes, taller than Fenris by two heads, Fenris just coming up to mid shoulder. His eyes glowed bright with the green of the Fade, and he leapt at Fenris, who sent a fireball in his face. The Formless One just ignored it, green eyes shining through the gloom.

Fenris had about reached his limit with the mana he could control as well. Even with the mental instructions, he still recoiled from the use, and would not have used any of it at all if he had any other options. He had a massive headache, and he felt jittery, shaky, strung out. He couldn’t even get his lyrium to light again once it faded away,

He switched tactics, digging deeper and deeper into the recesses of their mind, looking for the parts of them that knew how to best use the spells. Nothing he did seemed to work against it anymore, however, and by this point he had expended so much willpower and stamina he could barely stand.

Fenris limped forward heavily, shoulders slouched over, one arm hanging down at his side limp, dragging his sword along with ground with one hand. It scratched and scraped the ground, making a horrible noise and probably damaging the blade, but he was beyond caring.

Forcing himself up, Fenris stood before the Formless One with his head up and his back straight.

“Why won't you die!” the wolf growled in Fenris's face, its jaws at his throat.

Fenris held him back with the flat of the blade. “Because I have too many things to live for,” Fenris said, neither blinking nor flinching from its teeth “I will not fall to you!”

Right as Fenris spoke, the ruins around them rumbled briefly and then collapsed for the second time and a blast of green that shattered everything. The city fell apart, the ground beneath him shook. Fenris felt himself falling through an impossible distance as everything around him began to crack, only for him to be caught and enveloped by the black shadow cloak of the demon.

As it touched him, it sent a feeling of hopelessness coursing through him. Fenris gritted his teeth. He would not let this get to him. He released the sword and grabbed hold of the shadow, using the last of his energy to light his lyrium and fade through the apparition. Then he grabbed him and pulled it into himself, hoping against all hope that it didn't hurt the Voice, and let out the strongest spirit pulse he could.

A pale ghostly wolf flew out of him, tearing into the Formless One. A loud shriek, and then an explosion of smoke and green stars that left Fenris coughing.

After what seemed like an age, he landed softly on some rock. He picked up the two-handed sword from where it had fallen and painstakingly attached it to his back.

He limped forward, slouched, one hand on his busted arm.

Fenris heard a screech, and he looked up into what passed for the sky, here in the Fade. “You again!” he said, but it was in a tired voice, not an angry one. The spectral hawk circled around him before flying in a specific direction.

“And let me guess: you want me to follow?” Fenris said. The hawk didn't say anything in return. Fenris didn't expect it to. Still, he followed.

He walked for a long time, following the dot in the sky. It was slow-going, what with his injuries.

When Fenris finally reached the end of his journey, he found Hawke stretched out in a crumpled heap, limbs akimbo. Her bright blue eyes were glazed over, and stared blankly up at the shifting expanse of sky swirling around the Black City. Next to her rested a giant puddle of black goo.

“Somehow, I just knew it would come to this,” Fenris said, shaking his head. Gritting his teeth, he tore a strip of cloth from her robes to make a sling for his arm, and then he knelt down, nearly toppling over with the shift of the weight, and picked her up again. When her touched her, there was a surge a bit like electricity between them, and her grey skin grew pink.

He walked for a long time, carrying her, paying no attention to the screams of the spirits or movements of the Fade, until he came upon one of them. He walked through. 

The Crossroads.

Ignoring the broken shards of the path, he took the first mirror he saw: A lit mirror with gold twisted around it, sharply pointed at the arch

Fenris awoke with a gasp, putting his feet over to one side of the richly decorated four poster. Next to the bed, Hawke's mabari whined. Fenris paid it no mind, moving across the room, picking up the discarded pieces of his armor and putting them on.

He was sweating, and felt distinctly unsettled. This was a strange place. The Hawke estate should be to him as familiar as breathing, and yet...and yet. Something still wasn't right.

“Fenris?” he heard Hawke call out, saying his name with a yawn. “What's wrong?”

“I remembered something,” he said, but something wasn't right. He felt like he was reciting from a script.

She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her jet black hair sticking up in all directions in a right mess. “Are you going to come back to bed?” Hawke said. Then she blinked, “Wait a minute, why are you dressed? Are you going to leave? Did something happen?” She became instantly alert at the last line, prepared for anything.

Fenris shook his head, somehow wanting to reassure her. “Don’t worry. I am not leaving this time. Never again. This I promise.”

“Again?” Hawke stood, duvet falling from her body, leaving her in just her smallclothes, and walked over to him. She placed a hand on his arm, and brought his chin up, causing their eyes to meet. “Is everything alright? You're being awfully serious, even for you.”

Fenris looked away from her strong gaze. “Not that serious.” He walked away from her, heading to the window that looked out from her estate. In the distance, just peeking above the roofs of the Hightown Estates, were the towers of the Kirkwall chantry.

“Something's not right,” he murmured. “Something is wrong.”

“It's not what we did, was it?” Hawke asked, biting her lip. “If I was too forward—”

“No,” Fenris said, “I am just unsettled. It was wonderful. Better than anything I could have dreamed. I've missed you, Hawke,” he said, softly trailing his fingers down her cheek.

“Missed me?” she said, surprise in her voice, “You were only gone a few days!”

Fenris bristled a little bit, embarrassed at being called out, but he said, “And even that was too many, Hawke, I—Things like this do not come easily for me and I—”

She gathered him into her arms. He rested his head on her shoulder. “Shh, it's alright, Fenris. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. In fact, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. You're not a slave anymore, Fenris.”

He barely heard her, stuck in his mind as he was. Something was wrong. This was not as he remembered. No. It didn’t happen this way. The Chantry was whole. Why? Hadn't this already happened?

“—nris! Fenris! Where did you go?” Hawke asked. “Stay with me, please.”

“You're right,” he said, taking her hands in his. He wouldn't worry about it any longer. He had better things on which to focus. Fenris smiled at her, earnest and free, and pulled her to the bed, where he undressed. “Wherever you go, I shall remain at your side, always. This I promise.”

She wrapped her arms around him. “I think I can live with that,” she said, snuggling up to him. Fenris nestled into her warm arms, unexpectedly tender feelings surging in his heart, and they fell into a dream.

Fenris woke up sore, arms still protectively curled around Hawke. He wasn’t lying on her soft Marcher bed with its down pillows. though. Whatever he was laying on felt rough and hard, like he was resting on a bed of stones.

Fenris blinked the sleep away. He was resting on a bed of stones. A pile of rubble anyway, more as the like. They were in ruins, somewhere, or maybe it was a battered keep? Fenris was tired of playing games with architecture, but he detected a dwarven hand in its construction.

It felt like a desert environment. The arid air nearly sucked his breath away, and the heat had everything shimmering in a haze. By the feel of his skin, they had been laying there for a long time, enough for the sun to catch and burn his skin. And if he were feeling this way, Hawke had to have it worse with her dreadfully pale skin.

The screech of a hawk. Fenris looked up against the sun, holding his palm above his face to block out the light to see the silhouette of a hawk flying against the sun. As he held up his hand, there was the tiniest bit of pull, and he pulled his hand down to see the tiniest of blue flames. He closed his fist and willed them away with a thought, and turned inward, deep into contemplation about what this meant.

And then he heard voices. Mumbling from far away, but as they came closer, he could make out distinct tones. He heard the voices as if from a distance, shifting rubble. One of them sounded familiar.

“Who's there?” Fenris called out, his voice hoarse as if he hadn't spoken for weeks. “Varric?”

“Hey, elf! Is that you?” They broke through, Fenris still beside Hawke. There were four of them. Two mages, a dark-skinned sharply dressed woman, and a Dalish elf with a staff bigger than he was, a massive qunari with horns like a dragon, and his short friend. “What the—”


End file.
